


Not on Your Bill

by stardust_made



Series: The Jealousy Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 16:04:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Five times John was jealous and one time he did something about it." John finds himself listening outside Sherlock's bedroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not on Your Bill

  
For the first time in ages John was feeling normal again.

It was Sunday and he’d just spent most of the day in the most unimaginative British way possible, at least for a single bloke. He’d spent it with a mate, first having some proper Sunday roast, then going to the pub to watch the football and have a few pints. Pete was an old ex-flatmate and an all around nice guy. Pete's best mate Andy had joint them in the pub and the three of them had had a perfectly decent afternoon, huffing at the missed opportunities for goal and using simple sentences on simple topics such as the prices of cars and whatever happened to Pete and John’s landlord’s incredibly hot girlfriend.

John opened the front door of 221b Baker Street a happy if slightly tipsy man.

It didn’t look like Sherlock was in. It was six o’clock already which at this time of the year meant dusk—yet the lights weren’t on. When John left around midday, Sherlock had already been gone for two hours. He’d made enquiries about John’s plans for the day first thing in the morning. Something too quick to identify had flickered across Sherlock’s face when John had told him about meeting Pete to watch the game. “Good for you,” Sherlock had said. “I’m off to meet with the client. Don’t touch the dirt in the bathroom.”

"The client" was a surprisingly shabby-looking member of the peerage whose daughter was about to get married to a young Australian. The father had some concerns about the union and even more surprisingly Sherlock took the case.

Evidently it was complicated enough, if it had managed to keep Sherlock away from the flat for the entire day. John looked around, then shuffled his feet to his armchair and flopped in it, not even bothering to turn on the lamp. The flat was quiet. Quiet, and warm, and foggy with the smoke of early darkness. John felt a conflicting throbbing in his belly. He would relish a couple of peaceful hours, of course he would. Especially after the noisy afternoon in the pub. But he also missed Sherlock's presence, too. Damn the beer and its effects—John always got emotional when he had a bit too much to drink.

He’d spoken about Sherlock just before leaving. Pete had finally managed to tease information out of him, but once John started he’d found himself unable to stop. Another charming side-effect of alcohol—it released a hidden orator in John, and this time he’d had the double encouragement of talking on one of his most versed subjects. If the low fervour in his voice, the waving of his hands, and his burning cheeks were anything to go by, it seemed Sherlock was one of his favourite subjects, too. Pete and Andy hadn’t made any jibes but their exchanged glances were eloquent enough. John felt some embarrassment at the memory. Talking about Sherlock always made him feel so…exposed. He didn’t even know why; it wasn’t like John was over the top in the way he described Sherlock. He’d have to try and stick to a more dispassionate account of their cases on his blog, though. Even there people were noticing—Not that there was anything to notice! There were just comments that—

John’s train of thought was interrupted when his ear picked up a sound. It was very faint; John's back straightened and stayed rigid, and sure enough now that he was concentrated he picked it up again. Was it a voice? John slowly rotated his head to the left, then to the right, and was rewarded—he heard the noise again clearly, and was even able to pinpoint its general direction. Kitchen.

As soon as he went through the portal, he could hear it louder. Definitely human sounds, and nothing mysterious about them—they were coming from Sherlock’s room. It looked like Sherlock was back after all; he’d only chosen to stay shut in his room. It wasn’t a first. He did have moments when he preferred solitude and John respected that, accepted that. It was less likely to occur during a case but not entirely atypical.

John was about to turn around and leave the kitchen when he heard _it_. He froze in his spot, his external lack of movement a pathetic match for his complete and utter inner halt. Only his heart thumped in his chest, a succession of incredulous, fiery question marks flashing in front of his eyes with each beat. Was this…?

Yes, it was. It was a double moan. A wanton little twin peak eruption, an unmistakable messenger to inform John that not only was Sherlock in there, but he was with _company_.

John couldn’t quite tell when he had moved but the fact was that he found himself standing right in front of Sherlock’s bedroom door, hands leaning on both sides of its frame, and head bowed forward. Listening. His whole being was listening. His brain had transformed into a giant dish, a massive receptor for the aural assault unleashed over John—the sound of Sherlock having sex behind the door.

John’s heart had given up on emblazoning any shapes or forms behind John’s now closed eyelids—it was hammering wildly in his chest, demanding a leave. John felt dizzy but couldn’t move, couldn’t stop listening to the two voices. It wasn’t a particularly riveting performance per se. It was just the sound of one man fucking another; the louder, rhythmic grunts each time the first was shoving in and the second man's breathless succession of “Uh, uh, uh” in reciprocation.

John's mind tore at the seams when he realized he was trying to imagine which one of the two was Sherlock.

A cacophony of images rushed in simultaneously and made him grip the doorcase. They all had one common component. Sherlock’s head thrown back, his neck stretched and his mouth open; Sherlock’s legs around someone’s waist; Sherlock on his hands and knees, his long, smooth back dipping at its lowest point as two grubby hands held his hips; Sherlock’s fringe dancing in the air with Sherlock’s thrusts; Sherlock’s chest flexing each time his pelvis pushed forward, deeper, harder; Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock…

John’s eyes snapped opened and he barely contained his gasp. He gulped air convulsively, the basic need to breathe desperate! He was drowning, drowning in the thick fumes of jealousy that filled his lungs. It didn’t matter if Sherlock was the one being fucked or if he was the one fucking. It only mattered that he was there with _another_. “Not really my area.”, “If people spent less time obsessing over some overrated physical act…”, “I’ve no affinity for the more carnal elements of human interactions, John, nor for the emotions behind them.” Liar. Sherlock had lied to him and—

The sounds stopped so abruptly that John wasn’t sure if he hadn’t suddenly gone deaf. Before he even had the chance to remove himself from the door, it opened and the liar stood in front of him, his body all but flushed against John's.

“John?” Sherlock frowned, eyes mapping John's face in their typical, often painfully astute manner. John frowned, too—something wasn’t right. Why was Sherlock wearing his shirt and trousers? Why did he look just slightly pink, as if he’d spent a bit too long in a closed, warm room, but that was all? And most importantly—To hell with it! John lifted on his toes and peered above Sherlock’s shoulder, looked right into the room—why was the space entirely void of other people?

“John.” It was a statement this time. The gravity of the situation hit John and surely took off several inches of his height. He fought an impulse to bend over under the pressure and tried to look Sherlock in the face instead, while offering his most disarming expression.

“Hm?” John said, tilting his head with a small smile. Sherlock’s frown deepened.

“May I leave my room?” he asked.

John made a hasty jump to the side, mumbling apologies.

Sherlock stood in front of him, taller than ever, and so unfairly clothed, that John felt his own ears practically burst into flames. He tried the beguiling smile again. “All right?” he added helplessly.

Sherlock turned his head to the right and regarded John with suspicion. His eyes travelled down John’s body; John allowed himself a longer blink and thus was unable to observe Sherlock’s face, but when their eyes met again Sherlock’s were very resolutely blank.

“I was watching gay porn,” he said with as much nonchalance as he generally used to announce any of his mind-boggling activities. “Australian-produced gay porn, to be precise. I have some bad news for my client. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go and deliver them in person.”

“Sure,” John managed to croak. Sherlock nodded and disappeared right out of sight. John heard the rustle indicating he was putting on his coat, and very quickly afterwards light steps ran down the stairs. John leaned on the wall and pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, stood still for a few moments as he gathered his thoughts. Sherlock’s voice very near-by made him gasp audibly this time.

“You now have paid membership for two of the websites that cater for more specific tastes,” Sherlock said, deadpan. “The porn there wasn’t free and they wanted a credit card, not a debit one. Mycroft fails all my applications for credit cards so I don't have one,” Sherlock added sullenly.

“So you used my credi—How do you even—It was with me, in my wallet, Sherlock!”

“Relax.” Was that a smirk playing on Sherlock’s lips? “There was a message assuring me the actual name of the website won’t show on your bill.”

John boggled at him. Sherlock lifted his eyebrows innocently, then looked at his watch. “If you don’t have any further comments, I really must go. I’ll give you the username and password later.”

It took thirty seconds for John to realize what Sherlock had just said.

Well, so much for feeling normal.

**Author's Note:**

> Original entry at my Livejournal [over here.](http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/34327.html)
> 
> A couple of months ago I was working on my first Sherlock and Mycroft piece ("Of Glass") for over a month when I realized that it had positively warped my brain. Hence, in a bid to hit the "Refresh" button, I launched the Insane Project: six one-shots in six days, now called The Jealousy Series. The stories were unbetaed and I'm posting them here the way they appeared originally—with a single quick edit after I wrote them. Apologies for any mistakes and bumps of the text.
> 
> Oh, and [Of Glass](http://archiveofourown.org/works/283368) turned out to be one of the highlights of my writing year—the Insane Project paid off!:)


End file.
